


cyclical

by shutupnerd



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Choking, Complete, Coping, Future Foundation, Hurt/Comfort, Izuru gets treated like crap, Medical Malpractice, Multi, Needles, Resentment, Sedation, Texting, Trauma, Trigger Warning: Choking, Trigger Warning: Needles, Trigger warning: mentions of overdosing, Ultimate hope, Undressing, allergic reactions, back on my bull again, being talked about like you arent there, but not really, but that’s normal, future foundation sucks ass, izuru still hates him lmao, makoto is doing his best, not super cathartic, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupnerd/pseuds/shutupnerd
Summary: studies of interactions between the two ultimate hopes. (or, makoto doesn’t understand why izuru resents him.)
Relationships: Izuru Kamukura and Makoto Naegi, Kamukura Izuru/Enoshima Junko (One-Sided), Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito (mentioned), Kamukura Izuru/Sonia Nevermind (mentioned)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

The scientists and committee members of Future Foundation are nigh indistinguishable from those of Hope’s Peak Academy. When he was caught (by his decision. He let himself be taken.), their eyes followed him hungrily from the second he was escorted in in his restrained glory. Handcuffed and  _ muzzled _ , as if he’d ever bite. There are forty-seven other methods he’d use to defend himself before he’d even consider biting.

It doesn’t take long for them to secure permission to run tests—see exactly what the school made him into. They call it “scientific interest.” He is sure that phrase is too mild for the eagerness in their eyes when he is shoved into the white room with a single order.

_ Behave _ .

They take his clothes. He has to be held back as the “nurse” of the room unbuttons his shirt—his arm is nearly broken when they pull it off. He does break someone’s nose when they’re stupid enough to kneel when they try and pull his shoes off. Someone lifts him up by the underside of his arms so someone else can get his pants off. 

He is yelled at to hold still, to make it easier for them and him. They slap him, once, twice, for his noncompliance. Hard enough that he’ll be bruised. Hard enough that blood is drawn.

It’s demeaning. Humiliating.

But he’s used to being treated like this. Hope’s Peak’s finest had perfected the art of subduing Izuru (a sedative hidden in his meals early in the day, just enough to make him still sluggish and pliable but with normal vitals by the time testing rolled around.) 

Future Foundation has had no time to figure out how to control him, so they’ve taken the route of restraint and brute force. It will work this time. It will not work again, but by then they will have more thoroughly checked the files Hope’s Peak kept on him—will feed him drugged food. 

After the basics are taken, all the normal check-up procedures are run through, he’s wrestled onto a table. (An operating table.) He could and would fight back more, but he’s in nothing but his underwear and there are seven separate people holding him down while two more tie on the restraints. Before the tests begin, someone lifts his head and adjusts his hair so that it pools on the floor next to him. So that it isn’t in the way. But even so, his hair gets tested, too. A few samples are cut away for analysis. 

They draw his blood, force his mouth open for a swab of his cheek. Lights are shined into his eyes and ears and mouth.  _ Say “ahh” for me, Kamukura.  _ They hook up electrodes to his chest and forehead—someone has the nerve to run their hand over his lobotomy scar. 

Every scar is catalogued on a clipboard. He can’t move his head to look while someone is actively holding him still, but someone must be taking pictures.

This is when Naegi bursts in, angrier than even Izuru expected he could be.  **_WHATDOYOUTHINKYOUREDOINGGETAWAYFROMHIM—_ **

He says nothing as the other does all the yelling for him.  _ NO, I DON’T CARE WHAT MUNAKATA SAID. GET AWAY FROM HIM. GET OUT.  _ **_GET. OUT._ **

The number of people in the room drops from twelve to two. Just the Ultimate Hopes. He rushes over the second the room is cleared out, untying Izuru’s restraints.  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.  _

He just lays there, still feeling exposed and probed under the fluorescents. He blinks once, twice, into the light, then closes his eyes, lets his head fall to the side. So he no longer is facing Naegi. Some serpent of a thing has curdled his stomach. 

_ I’m sorry. I had no idea this was going to happen. Oh, God, look what they did, let me get you cleaned up—are those  _ **_handprints_ ** _ on your face? Did they hit you?  _

An alcohol wipe is brought to the cuts on his face, his teeth gritting at the cold.  _ Don’t feel like you have to answer. I’ve got you covered. _

_ Can you sit up? Is it okay if I ask you to do that?  _

He sits up. 

_ Oh, man. I’ll get someone to brush your hair soon, okay? Or I could do it. Yeah! I can do it! _

He thoroughly despises the idea. Even as Makoto sprints back over with his clothes, and has never once gaped and gawked at the disgusting collection of scars all over his body, he still resents him. He always will.

Makoto Naegi is the Ultimate Hope, recognized by the world and adored at large. 

That was supposed to be Izuru’s space in the world. He was created for one purpose, and Naegi swept in and filled the role (better than Izuru ever could, too.). He would never be anything if not bitter.

_ Can I trust you to keep a secret? Now that you’re dressed? _

He actually looks at Naegi, for just a moment. Turns back away. Lays back down on the table, curling up into a small ball. He is cognizant of all that goes on in this room, he can take his eyes off Naegi. The worst he’ll do is awkwardly pat Izuru’s shoulder.

_ I’m going to help all of you. I’m taking you guys somewhere else. _

Izuru already knows about this plot. Junko’s AI sits innocently in a secret inner pocket in his pants. Well, they had just been roughly removed—the seams had nearly ripped. He’d have to check if the flash drive was okay later. 

_ Are you okay? I know you fought.  _

If he had fought harder, he could have escaped. But escape was never the goal—though it seems more and more appealing by the minute. Just a little while longer, though, and he’ll be away from these prying people and their probing hands and medical tools. 

_ Do you want to go back to your cell? _

He doesn’t move.

_ I can’t leave you alone, I’m sorry.  _ Footsteps. He’s moving closer, until he’s right next to the table. Izuru freezes and bites his tongue when a hand is laid on his shoulder, Naegi’s thumb rubbing circles into the skin through the fabric. The simple offer of traditional comfort is just as alienating and demoralizing as everything else he was just forced through. 

_ There are no cameras in here. Nobody else was watching. _

As if ten people weren’t enough? As if ten people weren’t too many? If he could move, if the attempt at comfort hadn’t completely immobilized him, he would have curled into himself even more. 

_ We don’t have long before someone comes back. If you’re still here, they’ll try and get me out of the room so they can keep testing you. Come on, let’s go. _

He walks around to the other side of the table. There’s a pair of handcuffs in his hand, that he clicks around Izuru’s wrists.  _ Sorry. I have to.  _

He’s led through the maze of hallways, Naegi cheerfully brushing off concerned glances and questions. The route he is taken keeps him from the tell-tale flutter of lab coats. They stop by the infirmary (he grabs a hairbrush and a few band-aids), then back to the cell that’s served as his resting place. There are cuts on his cheek from where he was slapped (the person who hit him wore a ring). 

The band-aids are neon yellow. 

_ They had red ones, I should’ve gotten those. Those would’ve matched your eyes!  _

Awkward silence.

_ Yeah, I get you’re not one for jokes. Here, can I sit next to you? I’m gonna fix your hair for you. Kyoko taught me how to braid—do you mind if I test out my skills?  _

Naegi takes his silence as approval and scoots behind him with the hairbrush. He pools and sections pieces of hair. People have always been fascinated by it, doing what they want with it, whenever they feel like it. At least he asked Izuru’s permission. 

Before long, he’s left alone with a messy braid. There’s a (muffled) shouting match outside his cell door.

_ HE’S A REMNANT— _

_ HE’S A HUMAN BEING. I WON’T LET YOU TREAT HUMANS LIKE THIS. _

_ I DON’T CARE. CALL IT PUNISHMENT FOR WHAT HE’S DONE. _

_ TREATING HIM LIKE A LAB RAT IS JUSTICE TO YOU? _

It’s like he’s not even there. 

It’s not like he’s ever been there, to make his own choices. 

Even the kindest of people make his decisions for him. 


	2. airway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe i have to say this but if someone comments ONE MORE THING that is rude, inappropriate, or makes me uncomfortable on a VENT FIC, yall are losing comment privileges. this is my coping mechanism. Please be respectful of that.

The next round of testing comes with a locked door—when Naegi is out for the day. They did read the files Hope’s Peak left behind in its’ death this time. They sedate him, slip a tranquilizer into his morning “meal.”

_ Sleep well, Kamukura.  _ It sounds like he’s being mocked, as he falls onto the floor.

When he comes to, they’re in the process of pulling his clothes off again. His blood pressure and heart rate is being tracked and recorded. They’ve already put him on the table (the leg restraints are wrapped on the second his pants have been thrown to the side of the room. There is nobody to stop them from taking what they want and that is exactly what they do. 

_ Here, hold his arm straight, I can’t find the vein.  _ Over and over, the needle punctures skin. It takes four tries to find a vein. He can’t help but wonder if she’s missing on purpose. Nobody has ever struggled to find his veins before. 

He feels sluggish. Like he’s breathing smoke—like someone is smothering him. His vision is still blurry.

They overdosed him.

They overdosed him, and he can barely breathe.

But they’ve pulled his mouth open to check it, and he can’t make his plight known. A flashlight is being shone down his throat, and nobody notices or cares that he’s struggling for breath. 

_ Holy shit, they operated on his mouth, too. Look at this.  _

His breaths come in shallow, broken gasps. Nobody notices.

They’re looking right in his mouth, and they don’t notice a thing. His arms are bound to the table. He can’t signal for help.

He feels faint.

It takes exactly seven minutes and thirty-six seconds for someone to notice, right when he’s on the verge of passing out.

_ Listen to his breathing. _

_ What do you mean? _

_ I mean he’s  _ **_struggling._ ** _ I think he has been for a while.  _

They all rush over. Finally listen. But it’s far too little, far too late.  _ Shit. SHIT. Get him on oxygen.  _

Someone slips a mask over his face. He breathes greedily—he can  _ breathe breathe breathe. _ But it’s not quite enough; his throat hasn’t opened up.

_ How did nobody see that? _

_ It doesn’t matter. Keep testing. Naegi gets back soon. We have to get him back to his cell before then. _

They untie his arms (but still make sure he’s secure in their hold.). He’s pulled into a sitting position, his hair pushed aside. 

_ Check the files we have. See what he’s got.  _

_ There should be spinal implants here— _ they push on them. It forces his posture, somehow, to be even straighter.  _ Wonder how they pulled that off. _

There are bite marks on his shoulders that they scrutinize. Laugh at. 

_ Someone likes it rough, huh? _

He freezes when hands brush over the bites. No.  _ No.  _ They can’t be seeing them. They can’t be looking at him...like that. That part of him is secret. Private. His own shame to bear. He feels on fire in his own skin,  _ no no no no no— _

He thrashes, despite the fact that he can barely breathe. He fights to get their shoulders off his arms and back, so he can  _ get away from them.  _ They  _ slam  _ him into the metal table, knocking what precious little air he has left right out of him. 

_ Fuck it. Take him back. He’s being too bothersome. We already got what we wanted, anyway. We can get more later. _

He’s stuffed back into his clothes and shoved into his cell, the door slamming behind him. He doesn’t even make it into bed before he collapses, struggling for breath on the tile floor. Maybe—maybe it’s not an overdose, maybe he’s just allergic. That doesn’t make the threat any less real.

He’s there for an hour, maybe more, flitting in and out of consciousness, struggling to breathe (they took the oxygen mask). There’s bruises forming on his head when he was slammed into the table.

It’s another twenty minutes before Naegi walks in with a box of fruit snacks (making the rounds, as he normally does. He visits all of them daily.). It drops to the floor the second he sees Izuru—he rushes over and kneels next to him, his face paling over Izuru’s labored breathing. He notices.

_ What happened?! Are you okay?! _

He can’t tell him—he can’t talk. He can’t ask for help. All he can do is feebly gasp and hope he understands.

_ Oh. Oh my God. You can’t breathe.  _

_ Dammit! I can’t carry you. You’re just gonna have to hold on for a second. Can you do that? Here—um, tap me once on the leg for yes, twice for no. _

He taps once. He can hold on for a little longer, but not much. In a very real sense, this is the first time he’s ever actually communicated with Makoto Naegi. 

_ Here, here— _ he sits Izuru up, unbuttons the top half of his shirt and unties his tie; anything to minimize the pressure around his airway. He begins to cough, trying desperately to clear up an airway that simply won't open back up.

_ I’ll be right back. I’ll be there. Please just hang on a second longer.  _

Does he have a choice?

It takes three minutes for Makoto to rush back with someone stronger, who carries him to the infirmary. The nurse wrinkles her nose as he’s dumped into her bed, but her eyes widen at the instant the words  _ he can’t breathe  _ pass Makoto’s lips.

_ What happened. What’s wrong? _

He’s back on an oxygen mask; they hand him a pencil and paper.

_ they drugged me. allergic. _

An Epi-Pen is slammed into his leg.

_ Who?  _ Makoto’s voice is dangerously low.

_ doctors. they tested me again.  _

His grip on his stress ball tightens. 

_ They were told to stay away from you.  _

_ my food was drugged. _

He underlines this last statement, only just beginning to breathe freely.

Makoto takes the pad from his hands, sighs.  _ Rest. Flush it out of your system. _

The nurse walks over.  _ Open wide.  _ She feeds him medicated water.  _ It’ll help flush out your system while you sleep. _

He doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He just got his air back—

_ Sleep will do you some good, Izuru.  _ Naegi sits by the bed, pulls the blanket up over him. He’s still in handcuffs, nevermind how woozy he is.

He closes his eyes. Before long he’s very convincingly playacting at sleep. Makoto audibly sighs (he imagines the other has slumped in his chair.). He hears the nurse leave and someone else walk in.  _ Why does this keep happening, Kyoko? _

The sound of her footsteps is amplified in his silence.  _ They want answers to how he was created. They don’t really care if it hurts him in the process. _

_ But how can they  _ **_not_ ** _ care? Every time I turn around, it’s a new person with a new way of treating him like crap. _

_ I’m sure he’s used to it. _

_ That doesn’t make it okay. _

She sighs.  _ No, it doesn’t. But you aren’t exempt from that, Makoto. If your program works, Izuru is going to die. _

His grip tightened under the sheets.

_ I know. I’m just trying to make the last few times better for him. He’ll finally be able to rest and wake up as himself. He’ll thank me when he wakes up. _

_ You don’t  _ **_know_ ** _ that, Makoto.  _

Someone smooths the sheets around him. He’s not sure which one.

He has no idea who “himself” is, if not Izuru Kamukura.That is all he has ever been. 

_ You’re operating under the assumption that Kamukura is Hinata. _

_ Well, it makes sense, right? _

Kamukura is certainly  _ not  _ Hinata. Hinata is dead. He was removed for Kamukura to take his place. It’s almost poetic that they’d remove him for Hinata’s glorious return.

_ They’re beginning to suspect that you’re planning something, Makoto. You’ve been too nice to them. We take them tonight. Come on. Let’s get him out of here before the nurse comes back.  _

_ He needs a few hours. We have to come back for him later, if we’re doing this now. Who knows what they even gave him— _

_ He’ll be fine, Makoto. _

_ I found him collapsed on the floor. He couldn’t  _ **_talk_ ** _ because he couldn’t breathe. _

_ He’s never talked to you before. Why would that matter now? _

On and on, the conversation goes. Like he’s some removed topic of debate, and not someone laying right next to them. At least he can breathe.

At least he can breathe. 

At least he can breathe.


	3. shear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this particular scene actually runs parallel to one of my other fics—chapter 10 of “an account of events” is where said haircut is actually detailed

One hour after Naegi cuts his hair, Izuru forces himself to shower. His body is lighter, but his mind is far heavier. He needs far less to clean it, but it feels more wasteful when the bubbles go down the drain. He doesn’t know how they cleaned up his hair, they cut off thirty-nine inches of it. More than half.

_ I’m going to cut off as little as I possibly can. _

He cut off thirty-nine inches. 

He doesn’t dry it when he gets out of the shower. He lets it drip onto the ground, soak everything around him. Maybe the wet will simulate the weight that’s gone.

Before long the pillowcase is soaked. He doesn’t care. He stares at the metal door silently, threadbare blanket doing little to nothing to banish the chill. 

He is not sleeping. 

Makoto comes in two hours later, timidly closing the door behind him.

_ Izuru? Can we talk? _

  
  


He turns over and flops onto the other side of the bed. He says nothing. He has only ever spoken to Naegi once. Begging him not to cut his hair. But the scissors still cut away, snipping at the identity he had built for himself.

Naegi sighs. He can hear him sitting down on the floor. _ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. _

  
  


Izuru wants nothing more than for him to  _ shut the fuck up.  _ He wants to be  _ left alone  _ and to  _ drown  _ in the apathy again, so he doesn’t have to think about what Naegi took. 

_ I had to. I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me. But please. Eat something. _

The food they had left for him an hour ago sits untouched on the table. Unlike his last cell, he has a chair (bolted to the floor). It’s cold and probably soggy. It wasn’t like he was going to eat anyway. It’s not like he eats much of anything, especially not after how many different hands have touched the food before it gets to him. Who knows what could be slipped in. 

He could stop breathing again.

_ I know you’re angry. I know I hurt you. _ Steps. He’s gotten up and is walking over. 

He sits up and moves away. He doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want to be  _ comforted.  _ He wants to be  _ left alone.  _

There’s regret in Naegi’s eyes. There’s hurt, too. He is someone unused to not being forgiven, Izuru thinks. 

_ Please. Please just…just eat.  _ He sighs and sits at the end of the bed. The opposite corner of Izuru.  _ You can’t neglect your body like this.  _

He just stares past Naegi, eyes on the door. Junko’s AI is burning a hole in his pocket.

He killed her. He killed her, and he freed Izuru. But he saw the tapes. He saw her choose her own death. He was going to save her.

He was going to save Junko, but he has decided that Izuru deserves to die.

His hair is too short to hide behind.

_ Izuru? Izuru, are you okay? _

_ Izuru? Can you hear me? _

**_Get out._ ** It bursts from his lips seemingly from nowhere, fired deep from his (perhaps aching) heart. Or, he would like it to. He has stayed silent this whole time.

_ I’m only trying to help. I can’t help make it better if you don’t talk to me.  _ He sighs, and buries his face in his hands.  _ I’m sorry. I really am. I regret the decision I made.  _

He pulls the blanket over himself. He is still cold. He thinks he will be for a while.

All he feels is cold. (that is what he lets himself think. he does not want to feel anything else.)

_ I won’t make you talk. I won’t make you do anything. But it...would be nice if you told me how you felt. _

He couldn’t care less about Makoto Naegi’s feelings. Especially not when he couldn’t care less about his own feelings, to the point where they were barely there. He sits in his corner, waiting for Naegi to give up and leave.

_ I’m not leaving. Not until you eat. _

He should pick a more comfortable sitting position then, because Izuru isn’t moving. Not until he’s gone, so he can sleep with his wet hair. 

He knows Naegi has a strong will. That he’s stubborn in his drive to “help” people. (Especially when it comes to Izuru, it seems.) But he doesn’t expect for Naegi to last nearly three hours, sitting there with him. Trying to get him to talk or eat. He looks like guilt is eating him alive for every second of it. 

He looks at him, looks away. Crosses his arms and sighs. Walks past him, into the bathroom. 

When he emerges with a towel, he instinctively begins to move back, until his spine is pressed against the wall. 

_ You can’t stay soaked like that. You’ll get sick. I...saw the file. Getting sick is bad, right? Like, your immune system is all messed up?  _

He would take getting sick over Naegi touching him any day. He doesn’t care how debilitating it is. 

Kirigiri has to come collect him.  _ Come on, Makoto. Give him his space.  _

She takes his hand and pulls him away.

They lock eyes as she pulls him away.  _ I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? _

The towel is left on his bed. 

Kirigiri, surprisingly enough, is the one who returns later that day.

She stands over him while he sits on his bed. It’s a familiar sight. Another girl stood over him like this. He would do what he did to her—but she isn’t talking his ear off. 

_ I was going to do it, if he hadn’t. I was going to cut it all off. Trust me, you’ll wish I did later. _

It isn’t later. This is  _ now.  _ These people seem to be convinced that he is this stranger Hinata, when he has only ever been himself and barely at that. He is sure he is not Hinata. Hope’s Peak took special care to make sure of that. 

_ We’re helping you. Even if you don’t see it. _

She is condescending to him. Like she thinks he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. Well, she  _ does  _ think that. Nobody knows that he knows. Nobody knows that the “incredible struggle” they had to capture him was him willingly being taken. 

Nobody knows much of anything, it seems. Even Kyoko Kirigiri, who he had hoped (ironic) would have something to her that could interest him. He, as he always is, is disappointed by what he actually finds.

The days blur together, marked only by Naegi’s guilty visits. He doesn’t dry his hair after he showers. He doesn’t eat the food they give him.

Eventually it is time to go into their little simulation. Nobody notices when the flash drive is plugged in. Nobody will know until it is far too late. He is no longer going to be free of Junko, but he suspects that he won’t remember this round of torment. 

He doesn’t fight when he enters the pod. He was birthed from one before. He is certain he will return from this one, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the love as always


	4. awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> backtalk

Izuru is not alone when he wakes up. There is a strange voice in his head, another presence entirely separate from his own.

His name, he says, is Hajime.

Hajime Hinata. 

It is immediately clear to Izuru that he has a calling in life now—to protect him. This is  _ his  _ body. Not Izuru’s. This is who was killed to make way for him—he has far less of a claim to their eyes and ears and hands. He is alright with this. He will be able to rest, and have a duty to fulfill that is, for once, good.

He is fronting now, because Hajime is scared. Scared and confused. Izuru knows what’s going on—he knows where they are. He has the years that led him here. 

Makoto Naegi waits for him eagerly. 

Perhaps, there is a glimmer of satisfaction in his gut.

_ Hajime? _

_ You really thought you would be able to rid yourself of me so easily? _

_ Izu— _

Izuru finally,  _ finally  _ can talk back.

_ He has returned. I remain as well.  _

_ You’re merged? _

_ He is himself. I am me. We coexist. We were never the same.  _

There is power, in talking back. In fighting. In defense. He is free of Junko once and for all (or, so he hopes), he is decidedly  _ not  _ Hinata. 

_ Oh.  _

_ You couldn’t kill me, Naegi. No matter how hard you tried. _ He takes another step forward, his hair still too short but about to become shorter. He no longer needs to hide behind it. Izuru stares down at Naegi, knowing his disapproval hurts far more when one of his eyes is green.

For the first time, Naegi is the one who shrinks back.

_ I never tried to— _

_ Don’t lie to me.  _ His voice is soft, but never weak.  _ I know you tried to bring back Hajime at the expense of my life. _

He looks away.

_ Come on. Let’s go somewhere more private.  _ The others were staring—Togami was walking away from Sonia and towards them. Naegi pulls on his arm and takes him through the side door. They walk (Izuru is still slow—he has to accustom his legs to working again.) until they sit outside.

He sighs while they make themselves as comfortable as they can get on a set of concrete steps. It is dusk—the sky is orange and seagulls crow as they fly and congregate.

_ I’ve never meant to hurt you. Really, I haven’t. But I know I have. A lot.  _

The surf pounds in the distance, the smell of salt and seaweed carried on the breeze. He will never like Naegi. They are not yet to forgiveness. 

And yet—

_ You are far less guilty than many. At least your attempt at murder was unintentional. _

The words are bitter in his mouth. He does not want to say them. At least others’ crimes against him have been, at least for some part, impersonal. Hope’s Peak sought the creation of him for his uses. Junko sought him, well, for  _ him,  _ but also for what he was. Future Foundation wanted to see what made him tick. He wasn’t a person to any of these people.

Makoto Naegi had always seen him as a human being, even when Izuru himself was undecided about that, and that made every slight inherently personal. So even if it wasn’t on purpose, it...hurt...more.

_ Why do I feel like you’re far angrier at me, then, than anyone else? _

He fists his hand in the fabric of his pants. His mouth stays firmly shut. Because he is. He doesn’t really know much of anger; not until…

_ You cut my hair. _

To call Naegi’s face white would be an understatement.

_ You know I didn’t want to. I’ll never stop apologizing.  _

Izuru is going to have his hair cut again—because Hajime asked. Because Hajime can’t see himself in the mirror. He is at peace with this. This is a sacrifice he can make, a sacrifice he deserves to make, for the pain he has caused. Naegi didn’t ask. Naegi’s scissors were entirely unnecessary.

_ You can stop. It is irritating, and gets you nowhere. _

He sighs.

_ We aren’t that...different, you know. We have the same title. The same pressure on our shoulders. I get it.  _

He stands straight up. So he really doesn’t understand, then. Why Izuru has always disliked him at best. That he has, even unintentionally, stolen  _ everything  _ that Izuru was supposed to be. That he has shoved Izuru off a throne that was supposed to be his, that he never got to sit upon.

_ Hajime will deal with you from now on. I am done with you, Naegi. _

_ But— _

He walks back inside, ignoring every word. If Naegi follows, he doesn’t look back to acknowledge him. He really doesn’t understand. 

He wonders if he ever will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one was shorter, i think i’ll have one more chapter and this will be completed. Thanks for listening to me vent yall 
> 
> <3 fen


	5. text message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no longer face-to-face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for bearing with me. i’ve been having a very difficult time lately, and this fic has been very cathartic. thanks for having my back, y’all. we’ll be back to regular content eventually, hopefully sooner rather than later.
> 
> lots of love, fen <3

He has his own bed. This is new to him. The only beds he has inhabited have never been  _ his.  _ (Hope’s Peak. Junko. Sonia. Nagito (the one closest to being his). Future Foundation.) But this one is his. His and Hajime’s.

He is not alone anymore. Hajime is there with him. He is there with Hajime. 

Hajime does not resent Makoto. Hajime does not have the same festering, crushed-up and ignored hate in his heart. Because that is what hides there.  _ Utter  _ hatred. He does not hate Naegi, but he hates what he has done. He hates what has become of himself. It colors and taints his every word to him, so 

he says no more words to him.

There were never many words exchanged—not on his end. Perhaps some of this was his fault, him not telling Naegi  _ why  _ Izuru was angry. But wasn’t it obvious, what had upset him?

Wasn’t it clear, what he had done?

He does not sleep with a pillow or blanket when he is alone. Comfort is not a luxury he has earned. Thanks to Hope’s Peak, he has been conditioned to believe the most unacceptable of circumstances are nothing but normal. It worries others, how he will only use a blanket when his body reaches an unacceptable temperature, or as a childlike substitute for a defense. 

The worries of his classmates will reach Naegi’s ears. He will get a nervous call that Izuru will not answer, or Hajime will relay the message.

The message will be ignored, as well. He is thoroughly unconcerned with what the others think of him (or so he has convinced himself, to make his isolation even among others easier to deal with.) that he can convince himself their concerned looks don’t ring in his hollow chest.

He knows they care (about Hajime. Not him. Never him. He is not positive or good or a leader. He is vindictive and irritable and pretentious and every insufferable thing.), and they are trying to help.

They are talking him in circles. Sneaking in to put blankets over him when he sleeps. Making him eat. They do the same for Hajime, so he is told.

Fuyuhiko, actually, had said so.

_ Listen, man, I fuckin’ hate you. But you and Hajime are a package deal. Even if you weren’t, ya know. You still deserve help.  _

He deserves nothing. He deserves absolutely fucking nothing and he knows it. Junko made sure he knew it.

_ We’re the same, darling. Yeah! We really are. They said you’re perfect, but you’re  _ **_every_ ** _ bit as fucked up as I am! Maybe even more! _

He had a blanket and a pillow when he slept next to her. He is disconnected from her bed when he goes without.

So he always goes without.

There are rocks lodged in his gut. Hajime calls that feeling  _ apprehension.  _ Maybe  _ guilt.  _ Maybe even  _ fear.  _

He does not like any of those options.

The phone rings. He lets it go to voicemail.

Another call that he ignores.

Then, a text.

_ Izuru, pick up. _

He does not.

_ Izuru, it’s important. _

He is starting to want a blanket.

_ Please. Call me. _

He will not.

He closes his eyes.

The texts roll in as he sleeps.

_ I’m worried about you. _

_ Hey. Please answer me. I know you don’t want to. Just this once. Please. _

Another call.

Hajime will be told that Makoto had a therapist and a psychiatrist with him, to evaluate Izuru and begin to get him help.

Izuru will call bullshit. So will Hajime. Not that Naegi was trying to help, but that a psychiatrist would want anything good for either of them that doesn’t come at the cost of the other. They are still learning about each other, perhaps still learning even how to  _ like _ each other. But he already would trust Hajime with his life.

He sits up, when he wakes up. There is a mirror on his closet door. He looks at it, the short hair and mismatched eyes, and he doesn’t like what he sees. The dark of the room hides the bites on his shoulders. He is grateful for that, but when one eye flashes red and one flashes green, he can’t help but feel uneasy in his own skin. 

He can see himself, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s never felt right, how he looks. Even when his hair reached the ground and his eyes burned uniformly, he’d always had the vague itch that something wasn’t quite  _ right _ .

Now he is sure he will never feel at home in his body. It is  _ wrong.  _ It is not  _ his.  _ It is simply his responsibility.

The phone rings one last time. Makoto’s name flashes on the screen, a plea hidden in a jingle.

It is Hajime’s turn to speak, now.

_ You can’t just resent him like this and only give him the one reason you do, Izuru. You can’t hide in your apathy forever.  _

He grits his teeth. Speaking up has never been an option. Speaking up invites everyone’s wrath upon his head. He does not speak for himself. The last time he did, he paid for it.

_ “I do not want to do this, doctor.” _

_ There has been a knife pressed into his hands. A hand has settled on his shoulder as he stares down the man in front of him. _

_ “He’s a traitor to us. He betrayed you. He’s the one who got you sick. You do know he almost killed you, I hope.” All their hard work almost went to waste, because he came in with a cold.  _

_ “I will not kill a man for being ill.” _

_ “Yes, you will. This is a test. You don’t want to fail, do you?” _

_ He lifts the knife. Aims. Throws it— _

_ so it sticks in the wall, seven meters away. Buried to the hilt. It will be impossible to remove.  _

_ Someone kicks his legs out from under him.  _

_ “It seems we still have some work to do with you, after all.” _

They’d beaten him. Locked him back in his room for two days with no food. One of the head doctors had exploded, screamed at him until he went hoarse. Every disobedience bred these reactions.

To this day, he does not like being screamed at. 

Hope’s Peak kept video files of his every move and test. Surely they were backed up multiple times, found by Future Foundation. Perhaps Makoto has seen them.

He doubts that last part. Makoto did not listen when he said he was done with Izuru. His space has not been respected, and even though he is used to it, he cannot express that it pushes him even farther away. Intrusion only breeds a deeper isolation. 

Though this is his fault.

He does not speak up for himself unless he has to. He does not feel as if this merits that he has to. (Though it surely does. More than anything else, it does. But he cannot speak up for himself.) 

He picks up the phone.

_ Leave me alone _ .

In the end, nothing has really  _ changed,  _ has it? At least, not between them. Nothing has changed.

How boring.

-

Makoto sits on the edge of his bed, miles away on the mainland, staring at the  _ CALL ENDED  _ screen on his phone.

He wonders what he has done wrong. He knows Izuru is angry, bitter that his hair has been cut. But there  _ has  _ to be more than that, right? 

There has to be. Why can’t he just  _ tell him?  _ Makoto would do anything to make it better, to repair their relationship before it reaches an even greater state of ruination. 

He sighs, stares at the phone.

He can try, one last time. One last time.

_ What have I done that has hurt you? How can I make it right? _

Sent. 

-

Izuru opens the text this time.

He drops the phone on the floor—the screen cracking as it hits the hardwood.

Perhaps he misjudged him. Perhaps he has been cruel, as well.

It will not be easy. (it never is. Nothing important to him is truly easy.)

But maybe they can make it right.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
